


Come Healing

by paperlesscrown



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Character Death, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Post Episode 4x01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-12
Updated: 2019-10-12
Packaged: 2020-12-13 18:43:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21002399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paperlesscrown/pseuds/paperlesscrown
Summary: Archie knows, more than most, how to bear scars. Here's one that'll take a while to heal.





	Come Healing

**Author's Note:**

> Please note that this fic deals with the death of Fred Andrews in canon, and Archie's grief.

_And let the heavens hear it_  
_The penitential hymn_  
_Come healing of the spirit_  
_Come healing of the limb._

**-Leonard Cohen, "Come Healing"**

.

.

.

_ Being a boxer meant that Archie knew his way around scars. Not that he didn’t know them well before; football and music and his general physicality meant that he was always dealing with some kind of hurt, whether it was a bruised shoulder or blistered guitar fingers or skinned knees. _

_ “Hey, you better watch out for that graze on your scalp, Andrews,” Mad Dog called out to him across the gym, the two of them pounding away at boxing bags after another round of sparring. The ‘graze’ was more like a cut – a deep gash that ran down the side of Archie’s head, payback for a particularly bruising uppercut. _

_ Archie shrugged as he touched it. It stung a little, sure, but nothing major. “Nah, it’s all good, bro.” _

_ “I’m tellin’ ya,” Mad Dog said. “You’re a fast healer, but that looks nasty. I’ve got a decent cut guy over in Greendale – want him to have a look at it?” _

_ Archie only grinned - the invincible, impenetrable grin of a teenage boy who’d survived every absurdity thrown at him by life. _

_ “I’ll be fine.” _

.

.

.

After the funeral, Betty and Jughead come over with food.

They don’t force him to eat it, which he appreciates. Betty busies herself in the kitchen, stocking the fridge with container after container, heating some macaroni and cheese up on a plate and placing it on the table – more of a gentle suggestion than a command. Jughead sits with him and asks practical questions that keep him sane and focused on the short term.

_ How long is your mom staying? _

_ Do you need help with any paperwork? _

_ Do you need me to walk Vegas? _

_ Do you need us to stay over? _

Never the obvious question of, _ are you okay? _ Because they’re Jughead and Betty. He grew up with both of them and they know, _ of course they know _that he’s not okay, that he won’t be for a while. He likes that they don’t have to ask; that it’s the elephant in the room they’re all comfortable with.

At some point, Jughead turns on the TV and flicks through the channels mindlessly, looking for something inane and familiar that they can all ignore. They settle on “Little Giants” - a childhood favourite. Throughout the movie, Jughead and Betty keep casting worrying looks at each other; Archie pretends he doesn’t see.

The sharp shadows on the walls gradually deepen to the darkness of night. The three of them fall asleep in the living room and wake up when morning streams in.

.

.

.

_ “Archie, have you had this looked at?” _

_ Veronica was sitting up in bed and inspecting his wound, her small, perfectly manicured fingers a stark contrast against the mangled cut on his head. _

_ Archie pried her hand off gently and gave it a reassuring kiss. “Come on, Ronnie – you’ve seen me worse than this.” _

_ “Yeah, but that was _ during _ the fight.” She frowned. “That cut does not look good.” _

_ “It’s fine. I’m a fast healer.” He winked at her. “Didn’t stop me from doing that thing you liked, though, did it?” _

_ Veronica allowed herself a brief smirk. “No. No, it did not.” _

_ “Hey, I’ll be okay, babe,” he said, ignoring the worry set deep in her dark eyes. “I always am.” _

_ . _

_ . _

_ . _

At night, he just wants to be held. 

Veronica comes over and has long, quiet conversations with his mom while he stays in the garage under the pretence of cleaning. He pointedly ignores the jalopy. He can’t handle that. Not yet.

When he retreats to his room for the night, Veronica follows, simply slipping under the blankets with him and staying silent until they both fall asleep. When he needs to talk, she knows that he will talk. And she’ll be there to listen.

But for now, he’s just grateful for the quiet. For the small comfort of her warm body against his. And the low, soothing whispers of her voice when he wakes up breathless and incoherent from his nightmares.

.

.

.

_ “Man, I told you it was infected.” _

_Archie winced as the doctor punctured another hole into his skin, pulling the thread through to close the last stitch. Mad Dog stood by, shaking his head. _

_ “How long’s this gonna take, doc?” Archie asked. _

_ The doctor sighed. “Who knows,” he said. “But your friend here is right, Mr. Andrews. Any longer without proper treatment and that wound would have become septic.” _

_ Archie persisted, ignoring him. “How long?” _

_ “Without the infection, I would have said six to eight weeks,” he replied. “But now? I’d say longer. As long as it needs to heal.” _

.

.

.

When Archie can’t sleep at night, he takes to running. Just like he used to.

Veronica knows she can’t stop him, so she simply holds his hand before he goes and whispers, _ stay safe. _He kisses her, slips on his shoes and pads out lithely from the front door. 

Outside, his lungs fill with cold air, sharp and bracing. He doesn’t take anything with him – no water, no headphones for music – so as he runs, he’s forced to hear his own breathing.

Inhale. Exhale.

In.

Out.

A few minutes into it and he feels a sharp jab of pain in his side. He slows down at first, trying to catch his breath, but he looks up, and realises what street he’s on, the place he’s close to.

He ignores the pain and speeds up.

.

.

.

_ “…and that makes, let’s see, an impressive fifty-five stitches in your relatively short lifetime, son.” _

_ Archie grinned sheepishly at his dad in the mirror. Fred was used to this routine by now – warm water, disinfectant and antiseptic on his son’s stitches. Archie knew that his dad would probably walk in to his room tonight, to tilt his head and make sure he wasn’t sleeping on his bad side. He’d done that before, when he was 10: he’d split his arm open during baseball practice, slept on the stitches, and woke up with blood on his sheets. _

_ “Is my ‘be safe’ speech of any use at this point?” Fred asked, dabbing cotton at a spot that made Archie wince. “Ah. Sorry.” _

_ “No, no, it’s okay.” Archie gritted his teeth. “But yeah, probably not. Sorry, Dad.” _

_ “Well, too bad,” he said. “I’ll be giving it for as long as you live under my roof. Heck, maybe even longer.” _

_ Archie laughed. “You’ll be giving it to my kids.” _

_ “Grandkids. Geez.” Fred smiled. “Wouldn’t that be something?” _

_ “It will.” _

_ The two of them fell silent as Fred kept cleaning the wound. Archie noted the look of concentration on his face, and was suddenly filled with a rush of gratitude for his simple act of caring. “Hey, thanks, Dad.” _

_ “No problem,” he said. “And for the record, I will _ always _ give you that safety speech. Even if you ignore me, and even if you can fend for yourself. I’m your old man - I can’t help it. I’ll always worry about you.” _

_ “I know, Dad.” _

_ Fred finished up and patted him on the shoulder. “Alright, how long did the doctor give you before they had to take these out?” _

_ Archie shrugged. “The timeline’s a bit fuzzy. It got infected.” _

_ “It’ll be a while, then,” Fred said, screwing the lid back on the bottle of antiseptic. “We’ll stick to doing this. As long as we need to.” _

.

.

.

The earth is still fresh on Fred’s grave. It sticks to Archie’s knees as he sinks down and kneels in it. He doesn’t know if he’s sobbing or having a panic attack or struggling to breathe, but he needs air.

He needs air like he needs his dad.

In the depths of his misery, he reaches up, clutching the cold marble of the tombstone. Somehow, it centres him. It tethers him to something physical, awakening him to where he is and reminding him of what he’s come here to do.

And so he does it: he prays. He prays the words that he remembers from the woman his father saved – words about a father in heaven, who forgives a multitude of trespasses.

Archie doesn’t know how long he stays there. For a moment, he wonders if he should go. But it doesn’t feel right, at least not yet. After the sobbing subsides, after he utters ‘amen’, he simply sits on the ground and talks to his father. About how beautiful the funeral was. About how much Vegas misses him. About his friends’ stories. About all the things he built – physical or otherwise.

“Man, it’s getting late, Dad,” he says, spying the edges of dawn creeping into the sky. “You think Mom and Veronica will be worrying about me?”

He’s tired and hungry and fatigued and grieving, and he knows that there is every possibility that he is hallucinating. But he could have _ sworn _ he heard his father whisper in his ear, in that gravelly voice that he never thought he’d hear again.

_ Take as long as you want, son. We’ll stick to this. _

Archie can’t see through the tears blurring his vision. He laughs out loud, and it sounds ridiculous, but he’s just so grateful. His dad’s _ here _. There’s no denying it. 

“Yeah, Dad,” he says, standing up, suddenly filled with the strength and hope of his father. “As long as we need to.”

**Author's Note:**

> For Luke, always.


End file.
